Penance
by Chapucera
Summary: Erik, Christine, Raoul and Philippe meet in a dark cemetery.   Short story, one-shot; Leroux Phantomverse.


**Warmest greetings, dear readers! This is a story I wrote last year - my first attempt at a short story, actually. It´s also my first foray into Leroux-verse. I can´t say whether it´s been successful, but I thank everyone for reading this and giving it a chance. I hope you enjoy!**

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><p>Could there be a man more at ease in a lady's dressing-room than Philippe de Chagny? Christine doubted it, and she blushed as she watched him examine the articles on her dresser with a cool eye. What was he searching for? Evidence of Raoul? Did he think she entertained his brother in her dressing room?<p>

Christine glanced at the door; it stood ajar, but she preferred for it to be open wide. What would people think of her? She never permitted men to enter her dressing-room, but Philippe had fairly forced his way in, his manner haughty and his demand to talk with her imperative.

As she approached the door to open it wider, Philippe anticipated her.

"Permit me," he said, and he strode to the door and pushed it closed, nearly slamming it. Christine could hear the giggles of people in the hallway, and she realized that the closed door would become the object of scandalized gossip.

He turned to her, his back against the door, and smiled icily, his gilded brow raised in supercilious mockery of Christine's discomposure, which was becoming more obvious by the second. Her cheeks were burning, but her knuckles were white as she clasped her hands tightly together in front of her.

"Please open the door."

"Only once I've finished speaking with you, Miss Daaé," said Philippe. His hair glinted gold in the gaslight, and his moustache twitched with his amused smile, the white teeth flashing beneath.

"I do not entertain men in my dressing-room, _Monsieur le comte_."

"What? Not even my brother?"

"Never!"

"Do you mean to tell me that all the time he's spent with you at this opera house, you have been merely strolling down the corridors or playing at cards backstage?"

"_All the time at this opera house_? I've only seen him once or twice! Really, _Monsieur_" – she left out his title as she addressed him now and gained satisfaction at seeing him stiffen slightly – "Really, you clearly imagine things that are by no means real."

Yet Philippe did not respond to this insult to his sanity. He appeared rooted to the spot and was staring in horror at something behind Christine. She turned and saw that his gaze was fixed on the curtain which hid the alcove - her dressing-room proper, the private sanctum where she dressed and undressed. She stared at the pink damask curtain in confusion before her eyes travelled downward, and then she saw them: the black toes of two leather shoes barely peeping out from the bottom of the curtain. They were obviously men's shoes, but before she had had time to flush with alarm, Philippe had brushed past her imperiously and thrown back the curtain.

"Ha - !" he began, but the shoes were empty. Christine approached Philippe until she was slightly behind him, and she stared at the shoes, completely dumbfounded. Philippe, too, looked perplexed, and he ran a hand through his hair, his eyes fixed on the shoes.

The door was thrown open without a knock, and Sorelli, Philippe's _cherie _and the Opera's prima ballerina, entered.

"Philippe…" She halted as she took in the sight of Philippe and Christine scowling at the shoes on the floor.

"What is the meaning of this?" Philippe ignored Sorelli completely as he rounded on Christine.

"The meaning of what?" snapped Christine, forgetting her confusion and lifting her eyes to Philippe's face in indignation.

"What are my brother's shoes doing here?"

"Your _brother's _shoes? I have no idea! _I_ certainly did not put them here…"

"Philippe!" interrupted Sorelli, and she started forward, and this time Philippe deigned to flash her a quick, warning glance – and she was thus silenced.

"I suppose, then," said Philippe, advancing into the alcove, "that you know how _this_ came to be here?" His voice was a disgusted growl, and he pulled something white off of the chair in the alcove and turned around, his hands filled with satin and frothy lace. He brandished the wedding gown at Christine like an accusation.

"It's a wedding gown," observed Christine, completely bewildered now.

"I'm quite aware of that," Philippe snapped, and he whirled around and threw it into the alcove, where it landed in a pile on the floor, before he faced her again. His countenance was white with rage. "What have you done?"

Christine's astonishment gave way to anger, and she fought to maintain her composure, her chin lifted and her eyes flashing. The _comte_ interpreted this as defiance, and his lips pressed thin against his teeth. He was white with contemptuous wrath.

"You vulgar little tart! You meretricious scum! You've trapped my brother into marriage! An _affaire_ is one thing, but for you to forget your position in society…do you think you can get away with this? I needn't tell you of the influence my family enjoys within the Church…"

"There's nothing to annul, as I have not married your brother, _Monsieur le comte. _You will please leave my dressing room now. You have insulted me in the most vicious way possible, and I assure you that I have done nothing to deserve it." Tears of grief and rage threatened to spill over, but Christine kept them at bay, aware not only of Philippe's scrutiny but of Sorelli's gaping curiosity. She inhaled deeply and continued. "I am poor, Monsieur. That is true. I am an artist – also true. That does not mean that I am not virtuous" – she glanced involuntarily at Sorelli, who glowered at her –"or that I do not come from decent family. You knew my good father, and at one time I thought you held him in some esteem, but I see I was mistaken. You would not dare speak to me in this manner were he alive, and as you know, I have no brothers, no one to defend my honor, no one to…" her breath hitched here as she thought of Erik, but he had been silent for weeks now. She brushed a tear away and continued, forcing her voice to be calm. "You abuse your advantage over me, and are no gentleman."

Philippe's eyes widened at this judgment as if he had been doused with cold water, and he fidgeted with his gloves, finally abashed.

Sorelli cleared her throat. "I believe you two have finished conversing now? I've come here, my dear Philippe, to tell you that your brother has been found in _my_ dressing room, and he's completely shoeless. A good thing, too, as he's stretched out and snoring on my divan, and I can't seem to awaken him!"

Philippe's mouth hung open for a moment, then Christine could hear the click of his teeth as he clamped it shut. Casting a final, wild glance at her, he turned and charged out of the room as Sorelli obligingly opened the door for him.

* * *

><p>Raoul remained in a drunken stupor, so he was quickly and unceremoniously packed into the de Chagny carriage and sent home. Philippe himself decided to walk; it was not raining – not anymore, at least – and the sight of those shoes and the wedding dress continued to prey on his mind. <em>Had <em>Raoul married that Opera wench? She had denied it very creditably, but perhaps Christine was a better actress than he had thought…

"If you weren't of possible use to me, I'd kill you now." The words seemed to come from every direction at once and were spoken in a reptilian hiss. Philippe's blood froze in his veins, and his hands, usually so quick to grasp a weapon, so _nimble_, were numb and leaden.

"No, I mustn't frighten you, I suppose. I'm going to require you to _think_." The voice became suddenly human and sighed in exasperation.

Philippe's senses slowly returned to him – the musty smell of the night air after a rainfall, the light breeze, the distant rumble and clop of passing carriages, the wrought-iron palings of the garden wall…all of these things registered now, and he realized with a shock that there was something more. The evening was cloudy and starless, except for the fiery eyes trained upon him from the shadows. Why had he chosen to walk this evening? His harried nerves were in no shape for supernatural events. He blinked, then squeezed his eyes shut.

A soft chuckle. "No need to panic, monsieur. I've already told you I'm not going to kill you. I should, you know. Do you know who I am?"

Philippe summoned his courage. "You are that blackguard who has bedevilled the managers of the opera house all this time! You will not find me such easy prey, however, ghost though you may be!"

The Opera Ghost blinked lazily at this bit of defiance, and Philippe was certain that he also shrugged, though he could see no more of him than his eyes.

"Mademoiselle Daaé was mistaken when she told you she had no one to defend her honor, _comte_. You see, _I _am her guardian and her protector. She could do worse, don't you think?"

At this, Philippe felt something cold tighten around his neck, threatening to cut his breath off completely. He clawed and struggled against the invisible noose, dropping to his knees as his vision blurred.

"So quickly the supplicant?" jibed the soft voice. "You will have the opportunity to prostrate yourself before Mlle. Daaé soon enough, so practice will do you good…but I have arranged this meeting for another purpose…"

Philippe gulped fresh air as the catgut loosened, and he remained on his knees, clutching at his throat.

"You and I have a common purpose, _comte_," the ghost continued. "We both wish to prevent your brother from marrying my protegée."

"If he hasn't done it already!" rasped the comte, still rubbing at his neck.

"I assure you, it has not happened. Not yet, at any rate, but I will need your assistance to prevent this disastrous match."

"Anything!" gasped Philippe, who now appreciated the full advantage of having such a fearsome creature as an ally.

"Don't you dare to smile at me in that way, _comte_. Don't forget that you have offended Mlle. Daaé and have therefore offended _me_, and that I will never be at your service. I serve only myself. You will pay dearly for what you've said tonight, though it won't be with your life. Not this time, at any rate…"

"Anything to stop my brother from committing such a terrible error!"

The fiery eyes narrowed, and Philippe remembered his fear. In his worst nightmares he had never seen a demon with such eyes.

"An error? The _error_ of marrying a young lady who is his superior in every respect except one – except in social position? You can accuse her of no other defect, but since you have taken it upon yourself to draw attention to the humility of her status, it is fair that you should make suitable atonement. No, don't interrupt! I give you my word of honor – and _I_ am a gentleman, monsieur – that the penance I have planned for you will be painful; however, once you have done with it, I will happily scotch any hopes your brother may have of marrying Mlle. Daaé."

Philippe watched as the eyes moved towards him, seemingly floating until they hovered over him. Why couldn't the creature at least _move_ like a human? The _comte_'s voice emerged as a croak. "What must I do?"

* * *

><p>Raoul awakened slowly, almost unwillingly, happy to find himself in his own bed. His head was throbbing painfully, and his mouth felt thick with phlegm. He forced himself to remember, to search his mind for anything which might explain his current state.<p>

He had gone to the opera house the day before and haunted its hallways, searching for any sign of Christine. She had emerged from dress rehearsal costumed as Siebel, complete with the breeches which drove him mad. Those breeches! How could any man be indifferent to such a woman in such a costume? He had followed her, carrying his usual desperate love letter, watching her legs as she moved gracefully towards her dressing room. She had not even paused when he had called to her, but instead had entered her refuge and shut the door as decisively as she could without slamming it.

He remembered his indignation, remembered his decision to knock down her dressing-room door if necessary, remembered his resolute charge…and now he remembered the shadow that had blocked his way, hearing words sharp with disapproval, then blackness. Raoul sat up in bed, straining to recollect more, but he failed.

"So the sleeping beauty awakens at last!" The voice was Philippe's and Raoul moaned. Philippe was the last person on earth whom he wished to see right now, but his brother immediately strolled into view, his eyebrows arched in disapproval, and he leaned against a bedpost.

"What happened?" Raoul moaned, burying his head in his hands.

"That's what I'm eager to know!" exclaimed Philippe, his thin moustache quivering with indignation – it reminded Raoul fleetingly of a frightened caterpillar, but he suppressed his mirth. He would have to treat his pompous ass of a brother with respect this morning if he wished to escape without a lecture.

"How did I come to be here?" asked Raoul cautiously.

"We found you asleep in Sorelli's dressing room, shoeless, gloveless, and hatless. Your shoes appeared of their own volition in Mlle. Daaé's dressing room, but we've yet to recover your hat or your gloves…"

"Then what are they doing on the bureau?" inquired Raoul, and pointed.

Philippe turned slightly, looked over his shoulder, and jumped visibly. Raoul repressed a chuckle; the hat and gloves were indeed sitting tidily atop the bureau.

"The very devil…!" exclaimed Philippe, and Raoul smiled in amazement at his brother's alarm.

"Why, what's wrong?" Raoul inquired.

"Nothing, nothing," said Philippe, sighing shakily. "But you have no idea how your pursuit of that … of Mlle. Daaé has complicated things. Why did you have to choose _her_? Of all the dancers, chorus girls, and divas in the opera, you had to fix on the only virgin!"

Raoul lifted his chin in haughty defiance. "She is different, Brother, as you have noted. She does not belong at the opera; she is too pure."

Philippe snorted. "Fool! So you've taken it into your head to marry her. Ingrate! When I consider all the whores and world-wise women who would be glad to give you a taste of the pleasures you've been missing…think of the women with whom I've arranged tête-à-têtes for you. They all look at me with large eyes and shake their heads when I beg them for a report of their progress with you."

"Then cease inquiring," snapped Raoul. "I don't want your tarts. I want my angel."

"Never confuse frigidity with virtue, _Frater_. It's been the downfall of many a man. In fact," he added, pausing in the grip of a sudden idea, "_that_ is your trouble. She's cold with you – she's the only woman who refuses to share your bed, and _that_ is what is driving you to her."

"I love her, Brother, which is something I'm sure you don't understand. I act only according to the dictates of my heart, and of no other organ."

"Doubtless," said Philippe dryly. "Well, whatever your heart may dictate, I hope that it does not involve transportation. Given the very real possibility that you may try to run away with Mlle. Daaé, I have taken the precaution of removing our horses to another stable. You will not find it easy to procure any means of transport within the city of Paris, be it bought or rented."

Raoul, who had indeed been dreaming of convincing the reluctant Christine to flee the city with him, was indignant. "You might think you can stop me, but you cannot! Nobody can control the use of every cart-horse in Paris! It's absurd!"

"Ah, but you are mistaken. There is one who can. You see, my dear boy, I am not alone in my mission. I have help."

* * *

><p>Christine fingered the stack of love letters she had received from Raoul, frowning. Barely half of them had been opened, because it had become clear after reading barely half of them that Raoul was only capable of sending her love letters, in spite of her pleas that he stop or at least vary his tone. He had been very good at entertaining her with anecdotes and lively essays of his own invention when they were children together. She wondered what had ever happened to his powers of composition.<p>

Fatuous love letters! They made atrocious reading, and were the source of yet another bit of misery: her maestro's estrangement from her. One friendly meeting of hers with Raoul had been enough to incur her tutor's wrath; a second, tense encounter with her childhood friend had brought an increase of wrath down on her head. She had been persistent in avoiding any meetings with Raoul after that, while her music lessons with Erik had become lessons in proper maidenly behaviour, filled with her tutor's admonishments and injunctions. She had been amused by the prudish turn his jealousy took. A walk on the boulevard with Raoul de Chagny was a cardinal sin, but a fortnight spent unchaperoned in the home of a declared suitor – as long as that suitor was Erik – had been quite acceptable.

It was Erik's discovery of Christine in the act of reading one of Raoul's letters that had brought everything to an end. One lamentable defect of the girl's character was that she found bad poetry fascinating. She was capable of lingering over a particularly vicious couplet for hours, trying to dissect in her mind what it was that made it so indigestible. Raoul's letters provided her with material for such sport, and she had been absorbed by one perfectly horrible verse of a love-poem penned by Raoul when she failed to hear her maestro's approach. She could imagine how she must have looked, with her head bowed over the page, her lips parted in rapture, and a blush on her cheek at the furtive pleasure she took in the poem. It certainly was not the type of pleasure Erik suspected! Still, it had looked damning, and she knew it. Worse still had been the fact that a pile of Raoul's love letters rested beside her, tidily tied up with a pink satin ribbon. She had simply not known what else to do with them.

"Christine…"

His voice had held reproach, but above all, sadness. She had looked up, startled. It was not his custom to visit her in her dressing room, and he had come formally attired, wearing a mask which was bone white and covered all of his face but his mouth and chin. The eyes behind the mask, usually so bright and passionate, were dull with sorrow.

"Maestro, it's…" she had begun, starting up from her chair, but he had vanished in the blink of an eye.

She had not heard from Erik or seen him since, and two months had passed.

Christine glanced across the room at the wedding gown which had appeared so mysteriously the other day. She had hung it up with care once she had recovered from her surprise, and she had half expected it to vanish, but it remained as solidly in her dressing room as ever. Was it Erik's parting gift to her? Was it his way of yielding the field to Raoul?

"The Swedish Iceberg," the dancers in Sorelli's klatch called Christine. The singer had no known lovers, and people were certain that she had no passion in her. Christine smiled sadly. How differently they would think of her if they knew the feelings her tutor aroused in her! She had shocked her confessor when she had admitted them to him, and they had cost her a penance as long as a whore's. Did the priests have any idea how men leered at women who were assigned so many Hail Marys? Two men near the church's entrance had obviously decided that a woman who spent so much time on her knees in penance must be an interesting woman indeed. They had watched her as she left, nudging each other at her tears. They had not known that her tears were contrition for sins she had _not_ committed, with a man she might never see again.

"Christine."

A male voice interrupted her reverie, but it was not the voice she loved. Raoul had stolen into her dressing room without knocking, and stood regarding her, hat in hand.

"Raoul, I –"

"You have been reading my letters again!" Raoul's voice cracked as he went into falsetto with delight.

"You are mistaken…"

Raoul interrupted, shaking his head. "Please, Christine. You needn't be afraid anymore. My brother has told me everything. I know you have been under the influence of the Opera Ghost, and that your fear of him is the reason you've been unable to meet with me." Here, he knelt beside her and took her hand before she could stop him. "I'm here to rescue you. Come with me, Christine – fly with me, and he will never be able to follow us."

"Raoul, please! I am _not_ currently being terrorized by the Opera Ghost!" Christine withdrew her hand and scowled at Raoul.

"Oh, but I know the truth! No need to hide it from me, Christine. The ghost has threatened me with dire things if I should steal you away, using language which makes it clear he considers you as his own. Philippe told me so."

Hope began to course through Christine's veins. "The…the Opera Ghost has spoken with your brother?"

Raoul laughed and stood up, beaming down at his beloved with his hands in his pockets. "Nearly killed him of a heart attack! Seems O.G. wished to warn me off. I'm not to marry you," Raoul snorted. "As if I'm afraid of him at all!"

"Oh!" said Christine. "Did he tell him anything else?"

"That I needn't try to spirit you out of Paris, as the railway stations are being watched and horses will be unavailable to me." Raoul kicked at the rug slightly. "And it's true that nobody will lend me a horse, and I can't hire even the most humble hack, but I have outwitted O.G.!"

Christine stared at Raoul in mute curiosity. He seemed encouraged by this, and he trembled with pleasure as he announced, "Come, my love. Our carriage awaits!"

* * *

><p>"But, Raoul…this is a hearse!" exclaimed Christine as she beheld the carriage awaiting them on the street.<p>

"_That's_ the beauty of it, Christine," responded Raoul. "Who would have guessed that I would hire a hearse? I happen to know the owner personally – we've played cards together, after all – and he was happy to let us use his hearse. Don't you see? It's brilliant! Nobody will dream of following us, if you wear this veil…" Raoul proffered her a black, silken veil which nearly matched the dark cloak Christine wore.

Christine accepted the veil but hesitated, fingering it as she looked at the pair of black horses which were to pull the carriage, with their dark harnesses and black plumes. Her eyes moved reluctantly to the polished blackness of the hearse itself. The brass decorations had been buffed to gleaming brilliance. Christine shuddered.

"There's nothing…nothing _inside_, is there?"

Raoul grimaced. "There's an empty coffin. I could do nothing to convince my friend to remove it, so there it stays. He uses it for his business, you see…"

"Of course," said Christine quickly, and she surprised Raoul by putting the veil on and offering her hand to him, inviting him to help her up onto the carriage's box. As she settled onto the seat and Raoul took up the reins beside her, she smiled slightly. She was tired of sitting in her dressing room at the opera house at all hours on the off chance that Erik might appear. She was tired of her broken heart, and the novelty of her current situation appealed to her. Why shouldn't she flee the city with Raoul in a borrowed hearse? His poetry had convinced her that he was a half-wit, and the hearse merely confirmed that opinion. She was eager to see what the consequences of his scheme for escaping the city might be.

Raoul flicked the reins, and the horses began their journey.

The busy streets of the center of Paris soon gave way to quieter, newer neighbourhoods, and Christine was nearly disappointed to observe that nobody was pursuing them. They scarcely attracted any notice at all, although several gentlemen on the sidewalks removed their hats out of respect for the deceased as the hearse passed by. Presently, the horses turned in to a lane which was lined with cypress trees.

"No!" exclaimed Raoul, pulling on the reins harshly, trying to turn the horses' heads. "They weren't supposed to turn here! Why won't these cursed nags obey me?"

Christine was about to comment, but her voice died in her throat as she glanced at where the road ahead would lead them.

"This is a road to a cemetery, Raoul!"

"Oh!" Raoul exclaimed, pulling harder at the reins. "That explains it…this is the pair's usual route, and they feel bound to complete it."

Christine stifled a giggle with her hand. Finally, their trip was becoming interesting! Raoul glanced at her, mistaking her repressed mirth for dismay.

"No need to be frightened, Christine. These horses never go anywhere in their lives except to this cemetery and back, and they cannot be dissuaded from their established routine…" Here, he gave them another violent pull of the reins, and the horses reared their heads, worked at the bits with their mouths, and paused. Then, they continued their course, slaves as they were to their custom. Raoul pulled at the reins more violently.

"Raoul! Stop! You'll hurt them that way. Why not let them take a turn through the cemetery if that's what pleases them? You can entice them to continue their way out of town later on."

Raoul loosened the reins as he turned to stare at her, horrified. "You would go through a cemetery at midnight?"

"Well, of course," said Christine brightly. "I'm not superstitious, after all, Raoul, and I've no fear of the dark. It's odd, though, that the gates are open at such an hour."

As she spoke, they entered the wrought-iron gates and contemplated the old cemetery before them, which was illumined only by a half moon and some starlight. The markers rose up before them like the edifices of a silent city. Raoul stiffened, and Christine raised her eyes cheerfully to the branches of an enormous chestnut tree. The horses halted and would not be coaxed any farther.

"They must be used to stopping here," remarked Christine, lifting her veil, and she scrambled down from the box before Raoul could stop her. "Do you suppose there are chestnuts?" And she poked at some spiny chestnut-casings with her foot.

"Christine! Please, we need to continue!" urged Raoul in angry tones, jumping down and approaching her.

"Let the horses rest a minute, Raoul," she said, then stiffened. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Christine held a finger to her lips, and they both listened to the faint scratching noise.

"It seems to be coming from the carriage, Raoul," said Christine.

"There's nothing in there but that empty coffin!" he protested.

"I think you should check, Raoul."

He stared at her in disbelief.

"Please?"

Raoul turned on his heel and approached the hearse, grumbling, while Christine bent to examine the ground for more chestnuts. She had already found two, and she was optimistic about finding still more. After about two minutes, a muffled expletive from Raoul turned her attention back in his direction.

"Faugh!" he spat, dusting imaginary filth off of his manicured hands. "There is a cadaver in that coffin, Christine, and he looks to have been dead for at least three days. A fine joke my friend has played upon me!" And he took a handkerchief from his pocket and continued wiping his hands.

"Heavens, Raoul…" Christine began, but she stopped and smiled softly at something just beyond Raoul's shoulder.

"You will please pardon me if I am interrupting…" came Erik's voice in its most amiable tones.

Raoul started, turned to look, and froze in terror before becoming articulate. "The corpse! It lives!"

"He is _not_ a corpse, Raoul – how could you be so rude? He's my music teacher!" said Christine in tones of indignant reproach, and then she turned eagerly to her tutor, oblivious to his unmasked ugliness.

"Hello, Erik! I was hoping that I might see you…"

"Indeed? Is that why you are so eager to leave the city with your boy?" His posture was rigid with anger, his voice cutting.

Raoul had recovered from his initial shock and now tried to draw Christine towards him, but she skittered away from him and towards Erik, who obligingly pulled her to his side.

"Release her – I demand that you release her, monster!" roared Raoul, though his voice had a telltale tremble to it.

"Please, Raoul...your insults are giving me a headache," complained Christine, and she turned to face Erik. "I never planned to leave the city with Raoul. I was simply looking for you, Erik."

"You chose a rather peculiar manner of looking for me, didn't you?" inquired Erik, but his voice had softened, and his bright eyes glinted with curiosity within their dark sockets.

"I _found_ you, didn't I?" Christine exulted, her eyes sparkling playfully. "I was hoping you might do something to stop me leaving with Raoul. Or are you here to bestow your blessing on us? It was really too cruel of you to abandon me for two months as you did."

"Christine! What are you saying? What are you doing? This _creature_ has you in his thrall!" objected Raoul, and he stepped forward, though somewhat hesitantly.

"_That's it!"_ bellowed Erik, and he lunged forward. Raoul moved to defend himself – he had managed to unsheathe a small dagger he always carried on his person - but his limbs no longer obeyed him, and he found himself being carried towards the hearse, unable even to scream.

Christine listened as the coffin lid slammed shut, and she watched as Erik strode towards her, only pausing momentarily to affix a bone-white mask to his face.

"Christine…dare I hope you have missed me?" he asked, moving close enough to her to look into her eyes.

Christine blushed, nodded, and accepted the rose Erik offered her. "I've been thinking a great deal these past two months, Erik, and I want you to know my heart..." she began.

Erik listened.

* * *

><p>When Philippe de Chagny arrived at the cemetery, punctual to his appointment with the Opera Ghost, he thought he perceived two shadows embracing – a man's and a woman's. The impression was fleeting, though. He looked at the men who flanked him – his banker and his lawyer – then at the priest behind him. "Did anybody see that?" he asked, but the looks of confusion the three men gave him were enough to silence him.<p>

The banker lifted his lantern. "Dismal place to enact business, de Chagny," he said, shaking his head.

"It wasn't my idea," answered Philippe. "It was _his_," and he nodded towards Erik, who had approached the group so silently that the men gasped. His appearance was unsettling at any time, but to see a man whose eyes glowed a fiery yellow was particularly frightening in a dark cemetery.

"Well, Monsieur O.G.?" inquired Philippe. "_Have_ you prevented my brother from marrying Mlle. Daaé tonight?"

"I've managed to contain him."

"Where is he?"

"First, the contract. I give you my word that your brother will be released to you immediately afterwards."

"Very well," sighed Philippe, and signalled for his lawyer to step forward.

"_M. le comte_ bestows a very handsome dowry on Mlle. Daaé indeed," the man commented, handing several papers to Erik, whose eyes scanned them hungrily. "And this document also attests to her excellent and virtuous character, and to the great esteem in which she is held by the de Chagny family. Mlle. Daaé is now an heiress in her own right."

"Everything appears to be in order," declared Erik, after perusing the papers for another several minutes.

"In order, he says! She _should_ be happy, with all that money…" complained the banker.

A glance from Erik silenced him. "You are here as witnesses," he remarked, his eyes scanning the faces of the three men Philippe had brought with him. There was a murmur of frightened assent.

"Very good," concluded Erik, tucking the document into his cloak. He startled the men then by flinging something skyward which burst into red and orange sparks. The priest applauded timidly, his face aglow with surprised pleasure.

The hearse came into view, driven by Christine now. Erik handed her down, and muffled shouts and banging could be heard from the back of the carriage.

"It's Raoul! That's my brother's voice!" exclaimed Philippe.

"He's terribly upset, I'm afraid," murmured Christine. "You will take him home, _M. le comte_?"

Philippe nodded, looking at her with grudging respect. "Who'd have thought such a delicate, pretty little creature could be so dangerous? I wish you luck, Mlle. Daaé…though it appears that you hardly need it."

Christine curtsied, and Philippe turned on his heel and approached the hearse, eager to take his brother home.

As the lanterns of the hearse disappeared from view, Philippe's retinue of three straggled behind it like a trio of mourners. The priest brought up the rear, as before, and Erik's eyes followed the man momentarily before they rested on Christine. She looked up at him, reading the question in his eyes.

"Go on," she said, smiling. "Detain him. He may as well perform the ceremony here and now. How many people have gone to cemeteries to wed ghosts? I shall boast of it to our grandchildren someday!"

Erik stifled a laugh and gave chase, while Christine adjusted the veil that Raoul had given her.

* * *

><p>Philippe had driven the hearse for a mile before he deemed it safe to release Raoul from the coffin, and then the younger man was forced to endure a long lecture peppered with invectives and reproaches.<p>

"Do you have any idea how much money you have cost us? Imagine! Having to _pay_ the girl to let you off the hook…and a pretty penny, too…"

"I can't believe she was capable of it. Not Christine! It was that cursed Opera Ghost! And the fellow who loaned me this hearse –"

"—Was in league with the Opera Ghost," supplied Philippe with a dry chuckle. "You have been thoroughly taken in."

"Even the horses were in on the scheme!" moaned Raoul, his head in his hands.

Philippe smiled. "These are Guillem's horses used in his funeral business, are they not?"

Raoul nodded.

"Guillem knows perfectly well that the horses will only go to the cemetery and back, and refuse to go anywhere else. The man once changed their black plumes for orange ones and hitched them to a different carriage, hoping to drive to a merry fête in a neighboring arondissement. The horses took Guillem and his guests, all dressed in festive attire and longing for debauchery, to the cemetery, and refused to budge in any other direction. It was most embarrassing for him. Yes, he knew what he was doing when he gave you these horses."

Raoul was beet-red with anger now, and he wrested the reins from Philippe's hands and pulled them taut. This time, the horses obeyed and came to a halt.

"You see? _Now_ they do my bidding!" hissed the young man, and he scrambled down from the carriage. They had stopped behind a busy tavern, and though the street outside was deserted, there was laughter and music within.

"Raoul! Come back here! We had best return this carriage to Guillem!" shouted Philippe.

"Oh, we'll return it," replied Raoul, opening the doors at the back of the hearse. "But he won't have this cursed coffin anymore! Let the drunks make sport with it!" And so saying, he pulled mightily until the coffin slid out of the hearse and landed with a dull thud onto the street. He was about to shut the doors again when he spied Christine's rose and the short dagger which had failed to protect him earlier that evening. He snarled a curse and, opening the coffin's lid, threw the offending objects inside.

"Very puerile, dear brother," sighed Philippe.

"Perhaps," agreed Raoul, seating himself beside his brother again, "but now I feel better."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Police Investigate Macabre Discovery<strong>_

_The owner of the Algiers__ tavern, M. Cyprien Daspit, awakened Thursday morning to find a grisly death threat at his back door. The discovery of a coffin containing a cryptic message – a rose and a dagger – is being treated as part of an underworld vendetta by the Paris gendarmerie. _

_While M. Daspit strenuously denies having any enemies, he is greatly frightened and has taken the precaution of going into hiding. _

"_People like Daspit always deny being associated with criminals," said Inspector Jean-Philippe Pinot, who has been assigned to the case. "But this gruesome message, so carefully delivered, is no mere childish joke. M. Daspit has undoubtedly offended someone very powerful. We will get to the bottom of this situation with or without his cooperation, nevertheless…"_

Christine put the newspaper down thoughtfully. Could it be…? She lay back onto the pillows, her brow furrowed, playing with the gold wedding band on her finger.

Erik leaned towards her and placed a kiss on each of her hands.

"Don't you dare think of removing that ring – not after what it cost me to bring you to the altar!" he chided.

"It cost Philippe de Chagny much more," retorted Christine, laughing, and stretched lazily in the bed she shared with her new husband. She fell silent after that, and was soon lost in thought. "Erik?" she finally ventured.

"Yes?"

"How did you know I would marry you? You must have arranged that dowry from Philippe long before I realized I love you."

Erik sighed. "I did not think you would marry me. I was quite miserable. My only ambition was to prevent you from marrying that boy. I found that the _comte_ and I had that goal in common, but that he is a bumbling, puffed-up fool. So, he was no use to me as an ally except in one thing – he possesses a fortune. I was mulling over how to extract the maximum amount of money from him with the minimum effort when I overheard him insulting you in your dressing room. I decided then and there that he would regret that, and that _you_ should benefit from his penance…"

"But the wedding dress and the shoes? You didn't put them in my dressing room?"

"I did. That was for the _comte'_s benefit. I wanted his little mind to pivot from its worst fears, so that he would yield more readily to my influence. A little fear is very useful, you know. You can lead a person easily once you've frightened him, as long as he sees you as his savior. A wedding dress borrowed from among the Opera's many costumes and a pair of shoes were enough to crystallize Philippe de Chagny's fears – to define them. He had worried that his brother might do something foolish, but the sight of that wedding dress terrified him! It was easy to convince him to rely on me after that." Erik's gaze shifted away from Christine's eyes, and he stared down at the coverlet. "I am sorry that in his panicked state he felt inclined to insult you. I had not anticipated _that_."

Christine nodded thoughtfully. "But that sumptuous dowry – your revenge, _my_ revenge, Philippe's penance…If you had decided that I wasn't willing to marry you, then why did you set me up with such an attractive fortune?"

"I wanted you free, Christine. You could have chosen not to marry at all, and the terms of the contract – have you read it? Marvelously redacted! The terms of the contract, as I was saying, would have left you with the money whether you married or not. It is _your _estate, by the way, and your husband has no right to touch it." Here, Erik grinned an impish grin which was so endearingly ugly that Christine giggled. "I wanted you to command respect, never again to have to tolerate insults – at least not to your face. You'd have had suitors - not seducers…"

"Oh, Erik, really!" interrupted Christine. "I could never have been able to marry anyone but you, you know, after receiving such a dowry. I could never have been sure of any other man's affection!"

"Smart girl!" purred Erik.

"Scoundrel! You knew very well what you were doing!"

"Did I?" Erik's countenance radiated innocence, but his eyes gleamed. "And what penance would you mete out for such a sin?"

Christine pressed a kiss to his cheek and heard his breath quicken. "I'll think of something!"


End file.
